


Better Get Going

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e05 The Homecoming, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 18:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6295717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I re-watched Homecoming and needed more Porthos. When Porthos says to Charon 'you should have come with me', I thought that was a place to start. So this is sort of how Charon ended up not going, how Porthos went anyway. Mostly, though, it's about Porthos's grief for his friend. </p><p>Oh! And there's some Flea/Porthos and Athos/Porthos, but it's not really the focus so I haven't tagged for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Get Going

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: grief, canon death, some violence (people get shot), mention of someone not becoming a prostitute (do I warn for that? It's a sentence that suggests it was a possibility).

Porthos knows that Flea will never, ever leave with him. It's what holds him back. For years. He watches her growing into the power he always felt in her. His fire-cracker, always telling him what to do and expecting him to do it. Always teaching him, keeping him safe. He lies with her, fourteen and so skinny his ribs show, and he thinks of leaving her, and it makes it hurt along every visible bone of him. He stays as long as he can. Until he knows without a shadow of a doubt that she doesn't need the small protection he can offer, the small amount he can give. He stays until he knows that she will keep her body without his quick, light fingers. 

Thieving is something he teaches her. It's the only thing. Everything else, she teaches him. How to fight with a sword, though they have no swords, how to sight down a barrel, though they have no guns. How to find a meal in scraps, how to live on nothing, how to fill his belly when there's nothing. How to keep warm. How to live. How to love, how to love without holding back, without fear. He's sixteen before he gathers the courage to leave her. 

Porthos never even considers that Charon won't come. Flea is his love, but Charon is his brother. Attached at the hip, causing havok, taking everything they can, making people follow them. Flea tells Porthos how, and he takes Charon along, and Charon brings the fire. Flea is the brains, Porthos is the cool head, and Charon is the fire. Porthos is so used to Charon following him, being at his shoulder, or ahead. He's so used to curling up with Charon, watching each other's backs. He never even considers that Charon is not coming with him. 

“You could stay,” Flea says. “Please stay, Porthos. I will give you everything. I will. Anything you want, name it.”

“I want to do somethin' better,” Porthos says. 

He's packed. His clothes a bundle on his back, a piece of cloth wrapped round and round the coins he's been saving. He's ready to go. 

“I need you to stay. You have to stay,” Flea says. 

She's only fifteen, still so small. She looks fragile, though Porthos knows she isn't, knows she can more than hold her own in a fight. Porthos knows that, if she wanted it badly enough, he would not be going anywhere. Physical violence or emotional coercion, blackmail, mind games- Flea would have no trouble making sure he never set foot outside the court. She's not doing that, though, she's just asking him. 

“I can't, Flea, I can't live like this,” Porthos says. 

“You could, you could stay. You can't leave me here.”

Begging him. He wraps himself around her, and they hold one another. Porthos has never felt like a child in his life, until that moment. Everything falls away, holding Flea. The hunger, the struggle for life, the fear, the desperation, the awful necessity of having to work every minute of every day just to survive. It's gone. It's just them, and he feels so incredibly young. He finds himself smiling, and when he pulls back, Flea's smiling, too. 

“Better get on,” Porthos says, and she nods. “I won't ever forget you, you know.”

Flea just nods again. Porthos looks around for Charon, and finds him lurking in the street, waiting. Porthos gets a hundred yards before he notices that Charon isn't following. Porthos turns back. He never asked Charon, they never talked about it. Porthos thinks he's saying goodbye to Flea, too, but Charon is just watching him, and Flea's gone. Porthos jerks his head, to get Charon moving, and walks another hundred yards. 

“I'm not following you, this time,” Charon says.

“What?”

“I'm not going.”

Porthos stares at him. Charon tilts his chin up, and stares Porthos down. Porthos ducks his head, confused. He takes a few uncertain steps forwards, then goes back to Charon. 

“Where are your things?” Porthos asks. 

“I'm not going with you,” Charon says. “I'm staying here.”

“You're stayin'. You watched me… you let me… you're stayin'.”

“Yes.”

“But,” Porthos says. “But we were gonna be brilliant. We were gonna join the army or something, do something good, be good.”

“No. That was your plan.”

“You never said anything.”

“I'm staying. I'm saying it now.”

Porthos pats fretfully over Charon, his shoulder, his arm, his side. Charon just stands, waiting. Porthos hugs him, and Charon at least hugs back. 

“Better get going,” Charon says, shoving Porthos away. 

“I- no. No, you're right, we'll stay a bit longer. Yeah, get some more money. You're right. Stay a bit longer.”

Charon pushes Porthos harder, then gives him a vicious shove that sends him sprawling. Porthos is back on his feet at once, hackles up, body low. He growls. Charon gives him a kick, then lunges, punching him. It's wild and off target, it clips Porthos around the ear. Porthos backs up another pace though. Then he gets a sharp jab in, and they're rolling, shoving, biting, kicking. They've fought so many times. They know the movement of this. 

Charon, breathless, scrambles back, raising his hands. Porthos gets up to his feet, from one knee, and brushes himself off. Charon gives him a twisted, painful smile. Porthos realises, looking around, that they're on the very edge of the court. No, Charon is at the edge. Porthos is out, a coin clutched damply in his hand, pressed there by Charon. Charon gives him a desperate smile. 

“I know you, Porthos. You won't leave me without a fight. Well, there you go. You've had your fight,” Charon says. “Go. Do something brilliant.”

“Charon,” Porthos says, stepping forwards, but Charon shakes his head and jogs off, melting back into the court. 

Porthos takes another wavering step forwards, but he can't do it. He can't go back. No matter how much he wants or needs Charon, he can't go back. If he does, he's never getting out. He has to get out. It's no life for him, and as much as he loves Flea, and Charon, he never fits with them, or any of it. He turns his back on it and walks away. 

**

“He should have come with me,” Porthos whispers, bending over Charon's body. 

Athos shifts, so his leg is pressed to Porthos's side. Aramis stays back, and d'Artagnan's off somewhere making sure they're not going to be ambushed. Porthos leans into Athos. 

“Your friend is hurt,” Athos says. “She was up, when I saw her. She might need stitches, Aramis.”

“I'll do it,” Porthos says, tearing himself away from Charon, to his feet. Athos steadies him. “See to Charon, Athos, yeah?”

“I'll sort it,” Athos says. 

Porthos doesn't know how Athos knows the court, but he does. Enough, anyway. Just enough. Porthos leaves him and Aramis, going back to Flea. 

She lets him dig the ball out of her with a lot less fuss than Charon, and he stitches and bandages her up, then sits on the floor, elbows on the bed, head resting on his fist. He looks at her, and she looks at him, and she's still bloody strong. She sits up and gets her dress back on. 

“You'll be alright,” she tells Porthos. 

“So will you,” Porthos says. 

They walk out, into the street, and feels a soaring of joy for her, when she swaggers away with his gold, a swell of pride, a great wave of happiness. Her world mightn't last forever, but she'll seize every moment she's given, live every second. She's a woman who no one could ever hold onto. Porthos turns to his friends, and feels himself quavering when he looks at Aramis. 

Porthos follows them out of the court, then begs to be allowed some time on his own. He begs them to let him be for one evening, and they solemnly swear to. Which means, of course, when he gets back to his room Athos is stood in the middle of the floor, in the dark. Porthos lights the candle and sits on the bed to ease off his boots. 

“I'm sore all over,” Porthos says. “Nothing gentle about the court.”

“Aramis gave me a salve for you. For the bruises,” Athos says. “He suggested that you would perhaps prefer my company, to his.”

“Perhaps.”

Athos nods, and helps Porthos off with his shirt and jacket. It's funny. Flea's hands had done exactly the same thing, just hours ago. Athos's hands are different. Still small and strong. Still with more care than Porthos deserves. Athos rubs the salve into the bruise across Porthos's shoulder, the deep one on his side, the small one just above his buttocks. 

“Mind your 'ands,” Porthos mutters. 

Athos doesn't reply, he merely lays his hand on the back of Porthos's neck a moment, then moves ot crouch before him, taking hold of his chin. He turns Porthos's head this way and that, peering intently into Porthos's eyes. 

“You were knocked unconscious twice in quick succession,” Athos says. “How does your head feel?”

“Like I missed in the tavern the other night, and accidentally shot myself instead of the melon,” Porthos admits. 

“Mm. Probably part of the reason you had so much trouble piecing things together. Well, you seem alright, I don't think you've done any real harm to that great brain of yours.”

“Not much of a brain.”

Athos touches Porthos's cheek, then guides him into a kiss. Porthos lets him. Lets Athos kiss him. Lets Athos pull away. Lets Athos nudge him to lie down. 

“You're one of the cleverest people I know, Porthos. Bright, resourceful, strong.”

“Didn't realise any of it, what was going on. Didn't realise, all them years ago, that Charon was jealous, or that he stayed because of that, not because he really wanted to. I should have dragged him with me.”

“Who knows how he'd have done in the army. It's hardly an easy life, either, especially for you, and Charon. It took everything in you to get through it. You've told me that. It takes extraordinary resilience and courage to do what you did. Do not talk yourself into thinking you had the easier road, or you had more of a chance than Charon. You made all your chances for yourself.”

“I didn't trust him. From the moment I arrived. I didn't. I thought, maybe, it was because I knew the court, knew better'n to trust anyone. But Flea I trusted, like old times. Nah, I knew about Charon, but just couldn't put two and two together quick enough. And now he's dead, by Aramis's hand, and I can't look at my best friend without… without… I was so lonely.”

“I know.”

“I was so lonely, I had no one. Just me, for everything. I missed him. I used to have these dreams where I'd be back there, or he'd have chose to go with me. I woke up on my own, and often they'd have done sommat, you know? Some joke or other. Maybe I'd be covered in chicken blood, or my ankles would be tied together. That only happened once, when I was drunk. They tried it when I was sober, but I kicked one of 'em so hard I broke two ribs, punctured a lung.”

“I know.”

“Now I can't look at Aramis without feeling like I'm sinking back into that place, where it's freezing cold and there's no warm body near me, and it's been nearly two months since anyone's really spoke to me. I'm cold.”

Athos gets out of his own jacket and boots, and climbs onto the bed with Porthos. He pulls the blanket over them both, piling their cloaks on top. Porthos can't get warm, all the same. He falls asleep somewhere in the freezing cold, and dreams about Charon dying. 

**

They relive old times, shared history, shared ground. Porthos is wary of Charon, at first, but Charon always could tell a good story. He always could make Porthos laugh, too. He once made Porthos laugh so hard he sneezed. He'd forgotten how Charon could soothe him, ease him liked a spooked horse. Charon knows his temper, knows every facet of him. Charon can get him to calm, can get him talking. He's still a soldier, though. Porthos finds himself relaxing into old habits. 

He can let his mind fall back in time, but his body won't. He's reacted before he's really clocked the figure in the room, movement registering with his subconscious, identified before the information makes it properly through, and he's acted. He takes Charon down, knife missing by inches, flung with the same movement, fluid.

Porthos discovers that his new skills and experience make him fit in here better than he ever did when it was his world. He can fix Charon, bandage him up, can work out a bit of what's going on. As his head clears he finds that he still has his cool head. He's not stupid, though he's probably not as bright as some. He can think it through, can put things together. 

Or maybe Flea's right, and he really is stupid. He likes lying with her, likes loving her. Loves her. Loves her so much it lodges beneath his ribs. He wants to keep her there, with him, but she's her own woman. More than ever, now. She's practical, knows how this goes, cool headed. She loves him, she always has and always will, he knows that now. Properly knows it. But love isn't, despite what Aramis believes, everything. 

**

The first thing Porthos does, when he can finally string his letters together to make words legible enough for someone to read them, is sit down and write to Flea. It's a scrap of paper, just four sentences. It takes him two hours to get it done right. He folds it up and keeps it inside the lining of his coat through the long, terrible years of being a footsoldier. 

The first thing Porthos does, after making friends with Athos, is sit him down and dictate a long letter. Athos writes it out beautifully for him, and Porthos stitches that into his jacket, too. Athos offers to help him get better at writing. Porthos had thought Athos was just a gentleman, without much to him, until they sat down, and he learnt of Athos's patience and gentleness and wisdom. He'd decided to keep Athos close.

When he can write properly, he writes a third letter. And then, a year later, a fourth. By the time he gets back to the Court, by way of Charon setting him up for a murder, he's got eight letters written out, plus the one Athos did and the first one. Flea chastises him for not writing, and then takes away his clothes, and Porthos never tells her. He never gives her the letters. He can't. 

When he's stitching her up, after getting the ball out of her, covered in her blood, Charon dead. Then he tells her. He tells her about the misery of the army, of the loneliness, of missing her and wanting to just come home. He just wanted to come home. His first letter just says 'I wish I could come home. It's hard in the army. I love you. Tell Charon'. Four sentences. He'd thought that was all that was needed. 

“You could give 'em me,” Flea says, winding her fingers into his hair, smiling at him. She's out of it, blood-loss making her dazed. Porthos bends his head to his work. “No?”

“There's stuff in them I don't think you need to know,” Porthos says. “I wrote them when I was… Eight years is a long time. I will write you one, when I get back to the garrison. Just one. Yeah?”

“One letter. Yes, alright.”

When he gets back, Athos is waiting for him, and he can't write anything. His hands are shaking. 

**

“Can you write Flea for me?” Porthos asks, waking up, finally warm.

“If you like. Aramis is here,” Athos says. 

“Hello,” Aramis says. “Sorry. I just came to check on you, to sit with you for a bit.”

“Okay,” Porthos says. 

“I'm sorry,” Aramis says. “For what it's worth. I acted on instinct.”

“We're alright,” Porthos says. 

The bed creaks as Aramis sits on the edge. Athos grumbles, but Aramis's hand landing warm on Porthos's head, cupping his cheek, squeezing his neck, is good. Porthos sighs and leans into the gentle touches. 

“Where's our lad?” Porthos mumbles.

“Gone to the kitchens, looking for wine and food,” Athos says. “He turned up ten minutes after Aramis. We're no good at leaving you to yourself, clearly.”

d'Artagnan returns with chicken, and Porthos finds the energy to sit up and eat it, washing it down with good red wine. d'Artagnan watches him closely, smiling whenever he catches Porthos's eyes. Aramis is quiet, and leaves muttering something about finding more bread. Athos leaves to take a piss, and d'Artagnan at once gets up from the floor and sits on the bed, shoulder to shoulder with Porthos. 

“Wha's eatin' you?” Porthos asks, bumping their shoulders, remembers sitting like this with Charon, both kids, Porthos trying to coax Charon into opening up a bit. 

“I thought you might have done it,” d'Artagnan whispers. “I lost faith.”

“Nah,” Porthos says. “I know you did. I knew that. Don't worry about it.”

“But, I didn't trust you.”

“Haven't known me that long. Came and got me anyway, didn't you? Thought I'd done it, and still proved my innocence. Athos did it because he loves me, Aramis did it because I'm his brother and woe betide anyone who hurts a hair on my head, or upsets me. He's a cold bastard when he's got you in his cross-hairs and knows you hurt me.”

“You're my friend.”

“Yeah. I can't have another little brother right now, d'Artagnan. I need you to be my friend.”

“I won't be Charon. Promise. I can be a friend.”

“Thanks for the chicken,” Porthos says. 

d'Artagnan laughs, delighted, giving Porthos a wide, sunny smile. Porthos grins back, a bit sheepish. He is quite easily comforted with food. It just feels good to have good things to eat. Aramis says you can't bribe Porthos for love nor money, too loyal, but offer him food and you just might get the queen's secrets out of him. Porthos usually responds by tackling Aramis. 

**

Charon doesn't have a grave, there's no marker for those who die in the court. Porthos puts the coin Charon gave him when he left on the window sill, a rosary with a cross with it, a pair of ladies gloves, the first thing Charon stole for Porthos. They'd been so young, not more than seven, and Porthos's hands had got frozen up with the cloth he wrapped around them. Charon had got him those gloves. 

“I love him so much,” Porthos tells Athos. “An' Flea. I slept with her, you know, when I went back.”

“I know.”

“I loved them.”

“Porthos, you've lost too much. It's not fair.”

“Life's not fair,” Porthos says, picking up the rosary and running the beads through his hands. 

Athos takes Porthos to church, and they pray for Charon's soul, pray for Flea's protection. Athos, Porthos is sure, adds in a little prayer for Porthos. Porthos feels it, a warmth around his heart, insulating and strengthening him. 

“I love you,” Porthos tells Athos, when they get back to Aramis's rooms. 

“Of course,” Athos says. Which means he loves Porthos as well, Porthos knows. 

Aramis gives Porthos a quick hug and Porthos catches his eyes for the first time. He stares into the depths, trying to see them as the eyes that killed his brother, but all he sees is Aramis, is love, is kindness. Perhaps not gentleness, but kindness. Porthos nods, and they hug again. 

d'Artagnan pops up behind Aramis's shoulder, with more chicken. Stew, this time, with good big chunks of meat, bread and cheese to go with it. Porthos takes a deep breath and takes a step over the threshold, and then another. One step at a time.


End file.
